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Sunday, December 30, 2012

The deaf and dumb con artists portrayed in the 1850 newspaper item below prefigure the stranger with the slate at the beginning of The Confidence-Man (1857). Besides that, the story offers credible evidence (previously unknown?) that Melville actually met Simms in person, more than once.

From the Charleston [South Carolina] Courier, Thursday, May 2, 1850:

The Melvilles.—Two persons visited our town lately, under the above cognomen, one of whom represented himself to be Herman Melville, the destingished [sic] author of “Typee,” “Omou’ [sic], and “White Jacket.” They exhibited some beautiful specimens of penmanship, and expressed a desire to teach a class that useful art. They pretended to be deaf and dumb, which raised a suspicion in the minds of some, that they were not what they pretended to be. This suspicion caused a letter to be addressed to W. G. Sim[m]s, in reply to which, that gentleman says that he has, on several occasions, met Herman Melville, the author, and that he was in the full enjoyment of all his faculties, in as high a degree as any other person. Before the receipt of this letter, however, the Melvilles had sloped in the Northern stage.—Cheraw Gazette, 30th ult.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

“Battle Pieces and Aspects of the war” is the title of a handsome volume of poems by Herman Melville. Mr. M’s muse was heard with great pleasure many times during the late war. His poetry has attained to great and deserving popularity for its beauty of rhythm, striking imagery and ringing boldness. His battle pictures especially are replete with beauty, force and feeling. The volume is appropriately dedicated to the memory of the brave men who fell in the late war. Published by Harper & Brothers. For sale in Troy by Wm H. Young.

Does the Troy reviewer mean Melville wrote lots of poems about the Civil
War, as prompted or dictated by his muse, or that before publication, Melville was known to have declaimed his Civil War poems locally and informally, or that multiple poems
had previously appeared in newspapers? The claim of "great and deserving popularity" makes me wonder if the writer had Melville confused with somebody else--say George Henry Boker.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Glorious! to find poetry by Melville appreciatively discussed in so respectable a place as the NY Times Opnionator, in the recent online commentary by Cynthia Wachtell, "Melville's About-Face." Wachtell is doing something I love, comparing different versions of texts. John Bryant by the way wrote a great book about the pleasures of that enterprise, The Fluid Text, well deserving of wider readership. In her Opinionator piece, Wachtell essentially offers what Bryant would call a "revision narrative" to account for two small yet potentially significant changes Melville made (or rather tried to make before publication) to the text of his brief Civil War poem, "Inscription for the Slain at Fredericksburgh." As Wachtell explains, Melville wanted to change "Slain" in the title to "Dead," and "glory" to "dreadful glory." A third change, "Strown" to "Strewn" receives no comment. There we catch Melville regretting his grammar. To discuss that about-face gets you deep into the grammar of weak verbs with strong past participles. Yow! No wonder Watchell won't touch "strown" or "strewn."

Let's just say Melville rejected "strown" as distractingly archaic, and let it go.

Wachtell unconvicingly treats "slain" and "dead" as synonyms with different connotations or associations, one ("slain") more romantic and one ("dead") more realistic. But wait, these words are not semantically the same, not quite. Slain means killed by someone, even murdered, violently--right? Slain conjures the slayer. Dead seems by contrast more neutral, concerned with the fact of death, not the manner. Melville's tribute memorializes the military dead as proactive heroes of their own lives. They acted bravely, performed a deed worthy of a song. Slain threatens to steal some of that hard-won glory from the patriot and give it to the rebel. Forget for now the Confederate slayers, this one is for the noble Union dead.

Wachtell reads the d-words "dead" and "dreadful" as attempts by Melville to modify a conventionally pious stance through the "starker" language of "nascent realism." This interpretation strangely conflates romanticism and reverence, regarded as equally quaint and delusional, apparently, to which Wachtell opposes realism, regarded it seems as a later, less embarrassing stage of human development. But who in the world, any world, wants realism on a memorial inscription to dead soldiers? But let that go, for now. I truly meant to consider "dreadful glory," the interesting change from this

A glory lights an earnest end;

to this:

A dreadful glory lights an earnest end;

Wachtell sees in "dreadful" a change of heart, Melville's "about-face" away from the familiarly worshipful "glory":

His insertion of “dreadful” to modify “glory,” like the substitution of
“dead” for “slain,” subtly alters and challenges the otherwise
reverential tone of the work. (Melville's About-Face)

But here's the thing. The change to "dreadful glory" makes the tone more not less reverential. Whatever tension or conflict dreadful poses for glory is thoroughly traditional. The challenge perceived by Wachtell derives not from the dictionary of realism, but the dictionary of Protestant hymnody and theology. God's righteousness (glory) is conventionally placed alongside.the terror of God's (dreadful) wrath. Melville's change to "dreadful glory" echoes a number of Protestant hymns, most notably Psalm 65 in the verse translation by the "progenitor of the English congregational hymn" Isaac Watts. Watts's psalms in Melville's day were widely available, collected (and awaiting perusal at Google Books) for example in popular hymnbooks such as A Pastor's Selection of Hymns (Philadelphia, 1860).

With dreadful glory God fulfils
What his afflicted saints request;
And with almighty wrath reveals
His love, to give his churches rest.

Then shall the flocking nations run
To Zion's hill, and own their Lord;
The rising and the setting sun
Shall see the Savior's name adored.(Psalm 65, Isaac Watts)

We knew Melville liked to use (and abuse?) Watts. Hershel Parker has called attention to the borrowing from Watts in Moby-Dick:

The words to popular hymns were often composed by notable religious poets such as Isaac Watts and William Cowper. Melville makes his lank Bildad, for example, sing Watts’s “A Prospect of Heaven Makes Death Easy” as he pilots the Pequod out of Nantucket in chapter 22 of Moby-Dick. --Melville: The Making of the Poet

And we knew Melville made poetic use of other metrical adaptations from the Psalms, not only from Watts. Again in Moby-Dick, Father Mapple's hymn is reworked from Psalm 18 in the hymnal of the Protestant Reformed Dutch Church.
So rather than a jolt of "nascent realism," Melville's change to "dreadful" would have interposed the uncomfortable but nonetheless familiar Protestant view of God, or the divine, or divine dispensations, as terrifyingly awesome. This connection happens right away in the first line. Subsequent language similarly evokes Christian history and eschatology: a time of joyful restoration ("jubilee") when souls ("ghosts") are "transfigured." When are they transfigured? The end time, raptured even to the "rapturous height" of, what, heaven?

No! The fallen at Fredericksburg are "transfigured" at the "rapturous height"

Of their passionate feat of arms.

Feat or defeat? Why "passionate"?
Melville again employs biblical language to honor the dead as, well, like Christ and Christ's passion in their ultimate self-sacrifice.

The parallel to Christ is reinforced in the closing line, as Jason Skonieczny nicely points out in a comment on Watchtell's Opinionator essay:

"Strown their vale of death with palms" renders the fallen into Christlike victims"

As Skonieczny observes, the effects of the parallel are arguable. This indeed is where all the argumentative fun properly starts. Did the dead patriots martyr themselves, rapture themselves, transfigure themselves by their dauntless, thoughtless courage? And the best line has to be the fifth:

Death to the brave's a starry night,---

Wow! What could be finer than that? Melville liked it so well he ended "Chattanooga" with the same line, slightly revised, in Battle-Pieces.
But in the memorial poem for the fallen at Fredericksburgh, you need to get the allusion to Christ, and recognize some of the biblical terms and themes to begin to get what Melville was about.
Along with references to passion, palms, rapture and transfiguration, the nod to Watts in "dreadful glory" shows Melville aiming high, investing his brief "Inscription"with the hallmark of an old and much-beloved religious hymn.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Here we have Herman's older brother Gansevoort Melville at his ripping, racy, romantic best. Surely this is one of the great American political speeches, and "richly worth preserving" as the Troy Budget editorialized when printing the whole thing:

The text below of Gansevoort's speech at the New York City celebration of Andrew Jackson's birthday on March 15, 1844 mostly follows the printing in the New York Herald, Saturday, March 16, 1844. For comparison and help deciphering blurry type, other newspaper printings of the complete oration were consulted including:

New York Evening Post, Saturday, March 16, 1844

Albany Argus, Friday, March 22, 1844 (reprinted from the New York Plebian)

The rain fell in torrents last evening, but it couldn’t quench the enthusiasm of the “unterrified democracy." The dimly burning gas-lamps threw their flickering gleams on streets a fathom deep in mud, but still the thousands found their way to the Tabernacle. Such a gathering! To the inspiriting music of the fife and drum, the locofoco forces of the various wards marched as gaily along as a crack volunteer company, on a smiling morning in June, setting out on a target excursion; and on foot, in stages, and in cabs, came hundreds of the fairest, brightest-eyed, neatest, sweetest, most irresistible of the locofoco girls.

Long before the commencement of the proceedings of the evening, the tabernacle was densely crowded with the assembled throng....

Immediately behind the chair, a splendid portrait of General Jackson, (smiling benignantly on the scene,) hung suspended from amid the folds of the American Flag… On the front of the gallery were suspended, at either side, the arms of New York obverse and reverse, supported by two flags representing the old States of the Union. All round the front of the galleries were suspended beautiful flags representing the various States of the Union, each of them bearing a star and the date of admission of each State into the Union. The entire arrangements had a very elegant and splendid effect. A piano was placed on the right of the Chair. A very excellent brass band were ranged in the back tier, near the organ, and in front of them a full choir of elegantly dressed and decidedly beautiful ladies, which were selected, avowedly, from the democratic ranks, as rivals in the charming graces of the softer sex, to those ladies who graced the Whig Meeting held in the Tabernacle, some evenings ago...

After stirring rounds of “Hail Columbia,” a specially commissioned “Ode—The Watchword” ("We conquer or die."), and the reading of letters from James Buchanan and Silas Wright,

His honor the MAYOR [Robert H. Morris] then said—Fellow citizens, I have now the pleasure of introducing to you Gansevoort Melville, Esq., the orator of the occasion. (Great cheering.)

MR. MELVILLE then stepped forward, and was greeted with prolonged applause. On its subsidence, he delivered the following

ADDRESS.

FELLOW DEMOCRATS—We are not here to mouth high-sounding phrases—to prate of transcendental philosophy in transcendental language—and to deify “The Mill Boy of the Slashes.” Neither are we here to indulge in fulsome eulogy, and debase ourselves at the foot stool of any man.— Nor are we here to enter deep into a discussion of the principles and policy of the democratic party. This is not the fitting time for the elaborate consideration of a subject so grave and weighty. What, then, are we here for? Why, this gathering in of the democratic host?—Wherefore are the beauty and the bravery of this fair city congregated here to-night? This is a jubilee. We come here to discharge a duty which is a pleasure. We are here to celebrate the anniversary of the birth day of Andrew Jackson—(applause)—the man who has filled the measure of his country’s glory. He who, in times not long passed, was our champion and our leader—he whose crest always danced in the hottest and thickest of the fight—he who swept on at the head of the democratic masses with a force as resistless as the surges of the sea. And we come here to celebrate the anniversary of his birth day, as he would have us celebrate it—to take each other by the hand—to look each other in the face—to cheer each other onward to feel that we stand as we did of yore, shoulder to shoulder, making common cause against a common enemy. (Cheers.) This is the way that the anniversary of his birth day should be celebrated. We are brethren and wee meet as brethren. The spirit which actuates us, one and all, is the spirit of union, harmony, concession. Everything for the cause—nothing for men.

Our opponents, the whigs, held a great pow-wow here on the fourth day of this present March. It was a celebration—in anticipation—of the inauguration—of Henry Clay. (Laughter.) Apprehensive that they will be deprived of his reality, they are determined not to do without the illusion. Their celebration will turn out to be very much like the dead sea apple—fair to the eye, but turning to ashes on the lips. They have enjoyed their shadow, but we have a word to say about the substance. Who ever before heard of a celebration in anticipation? There is not a farmer’s wife in the country but who might have taught the magnates of the Whig party here a lesson of practical wisdom, by simply referring to the old saw, that it is imprudent to count chickens before they are hatched. (Great laughter.) This celebration of theirs is pretty much the same thing as if some poor, hungry, starving loafer should cuddle up in a warm corner, close his eyes, shut his mouth, and eat a glorious good dinner—in imagination.

(Continued laughter and cheers.)

The Whigs said one thing at their late meeting here, which cannot be passed over in silence—The orator of the evening declared that the women were with them. This sentiment was concurred in by a very high authority. A gentleman who in private life is estimable and respectable, and to whom I only refer in his public capacity. He distinguished himself on that occasion—calling to mind the fact that the devil can quote scripture; and feeling justified by the precedent, he quoted scripture too, (laughter)—for all must know who is referred to—the celebrated Whig extravaganza singer, Mr. Jim-along-Josey Hoxie. (Roars of laughter, and cries of “clear the way old Dan Tucker.”) Now, with all due respect to such high authority, we meet this assertion boldly and plumply, and deny that the women are with them. On that point we are ready and desirous to join issue whenever and wherever they choose. On that point they have thrown down the gauntlet. We take it up, and in behalf of our fair democratic countrywomen, accept the challenge. Calling to witness the bright cestus of Venus and the blushes of young Aurora, we feel confident that we can produce more and prettier women than they can. (Tremendous cheering for several minutes.) When I learned that their orators had made that most monstrous assertion, it caused me to reflect. What, thought I, the fairer, the better, and the gentler sex—that we all delight to honor—to whom we all owe so much—they who make a paradise of home—against us!

If this be so, we might as well give it up first as last—for it would be decidedly a bad job. (Laughter.) But it is not so. (Cheers.) Every man of us, on that subject, can speak from his own observation. (Cheers.) As for myself, I come from a stock, the women as well as the men, of which have, from the first organization of parties, manifested a preference for and a sympathy with the democratic cause. (Loud cheers.) If any man wishes more proof than is derived from his own personal knowledge, let him look around him. Those galleries will settle the question. (Tremendous applause and nine cheers for the ladies.) The wild flowers of feminine delicacy, beauty, and grace, that honor us with their presence here tonight, and whose exceeding loveliness might lure an anchorite from his cell, were never plucked from the prim and artificial gardens of modern whiggery. (Shouts of laughter and tremendous applause.)

Show me a woman who can sympathise with the magnificent mother of the Gracchi—who, when asked by the aristocratic dames of ancient Rome to exhibit her store of ornaments of gold and precious stones—answered, that she had none of these, but at the same time produced her two glorious sons, exclaiming, “these are my jewels.” Show me a woman who can understand this and feel it—and that woman is at heart a democrat. (Cheers.)

Remember the simple story of the sweet English girl, who was affianced to an officer on foreign service. It so chanced that he was desperately wounded in battle, losing on limb and the use of another, besides being terribly hacked and disfigured. The first use that he made of returning strength was to write to his affianced wife—she who was a part of his very being—informing her of the misfortune which had befallen him, and releasing her from her engagement. This was the first intelligence that she had received of the sad occurrence. It fell upon her with stunning force. Recovering from the shock, with heaving bosom and suffused eye, she sat down and wrote: “If your feelings for me are unchanged, and you have body enough left to contain your soul, I will not be released from my engagement.” That glorious girl, whose high souled and self sacrificing spirit dictated those words, well illustrated the hopeful, trusting, Christian nature of the democratic creed. [Great cheers.]

Now, my fair countrywomen, with your permission, a word with you. I grant ye that the whigs have the advantage of us plain-spoken democrats in scented hair, diamond rings, and white kid gloves—[roars of laughter]—in the language of compliment and the affectation of manner, and most particularly, in their style of dressing. If one of these exquisites wished to express the idea contained in the home-spun adage, “There is the devil to pay and no pitch hot,” he would say, “There is a pecuniary liability due to the old gentleman, and no bituminous matter, of the proper temperature, wherewith to liquidate the obligation.” [Uproarious laughter and applause, in which the ladies joined.] These flashing qualities do not answer the purpose. They do not rank in the list of fireside virtues. They do not make home the holiest spot on earth, loved and prized as it ought to be. Such qualifications will not smooth the pillow for aching head; will not pour balm into the wounded heart, and quicken the soul of sympathy. [Cheers.] It is most presumptuous in me, ladies, to proffer you advice, for I am so unfortunate as to be a bachelor. (A laugh.) But I may never have another opportunity—and, anyhow, I can’t resist the temptation. So, let me tell ye, that if you wish your lovers, when transformed into husbands, to be all that you would wish them, kind, affectionate, reliable, of good habits, truth loving—husbands that will be the idols of your hearts, your protection, your glory and your pride—be sure and choose from among the democracy. (Thundering applause.) To sum up, in the word of an old lady of my acquaintance, who, I must confess, has strong political predilections. Says she to me, one day, “I always tell my daughters that they must never marry anybody but democrats, because they always wear so well.” (Laughter and great applause.) Intelligent, warm-hearted and right-feeling women, the world over, must always wish well to that great democratic party, whose watchword, and whose crowning glory is—“Equal and exact justice to all men.” And I may add, “women too.” (Tremendous cheering.)

Now let us give a little of our attention to our friends, the whigs. They like to be noticed; it will not do to neglect them on this festive occasion. (Cheers.) Their modesty is only equaled by their merit. (Laughter.) They claim all the respectability, all the morality, all the decency. A party with such claims commends itself especially to our attention. We have all heard a good deal said about amalgamation. Did it ever occur to you that the whigs are practical political amalgamationists? It is clearly so. Federalists, national republicans, anti-masons, and conservatives—all rallying under one banner, professing one set of principles, and uniting in the support of one man. If this is not practical amalgamation, what is? The whigs naturally affect the composite order of architecture. The democracy prefer the Doric. The Doric is more in consonance with our principles. It scorns all superfluous ornament. It is strong, simple, severe, sublime. The whig party and whig principles call to my mind two things. The whig party—practical political amalgamation, and whig principles—Joseph’s coat of many colors. (Laughter.) Their principles shift with every anticipated change in popular opinion. They change their names with a facility kindred to that of those ingenious gentry, who, when brought up to the bar of our police court charged with petty larceny, or something of the sort, are always provided with half a dozen appellations—Jack Smith, alias Tom Brown, alias Jim Jenkins. (Cheers.)

To do our opponents justice in speaking of them, they should always receive the benefit of full name and title. Federalists, alias national republicans, alias anti-masons, alias conservatives, alias native Americans, or adopted whigs, alias democratic whigs. (Great laughter and applause.) But this last cognomen is enough to make a horse laugh. Why, they might as well talk of a white black cat, or a tall short man, or anything else that is a contradiction in terms. If they do procure any suffrages by such petty shuffling as this, I am inclined to think that an indictment would lie against them for obtaining votes under false pretences. (Great laughter and applause.) Whig tactics are very peculiar, and there is a reason for that. They feel and know that, in sober earnest, they are the weaker party. And hence the manner in which they conduct their campaigns (Cheers.) Did you ever see a man contending, physically, with one who is an overmatch for him? Now he strains, swells and tugs—but to no purpose. The strong man puts his hand on him, and it’s all over.— Do you know the way they catch a rattlesnake at Lake George? A man, armed with a long stick, forked and sharpened, sallies out among the hills and rocks. Spying a rattlesnake, he watches his opportunity, and with a quick and sudden dart, catches with the forked end of the stick the head of the reptile, as it lies upon the ground, and pins it to the earth. The rattlesnake, no doubt very much surprised, squirms most unmercifully. But it does no good---he is despatched at leisure. So it is with the whigs. (Great cheering.) We have got their heads to the ground and all that they can do is to make a splutter, and a noise, and kick up a great dust.— (Tremendous cheering—cries of “That’s the talk!”—“Give it to ‘em, old boy!”)

The whigs are a Protean party. They change their principles and their names with a magical facility. An animal is their emblem. Their animal affinities are very strong—they can crow, snort, snuffle, grunt, bray and baa. Now let us make them whine, yelp, and squeal—(Cheers and shouts of “We will, by blazes!”) I said that an animal is their emblem—so it is. And what sort of an animal?—Something dull and that never learns—is it the ass? Something vicious—is it the mule? Something stupid and hiding its stupidity under the garb of seeming wisdom—is it the owl? Something blind and that works in the dark—is it the mole? Something thievish and nibbling in its propensities—is it the rat? No—none of these; but a nicely adjusted and fitting compound of them all—a coon! A fat, lazy, oily, thieving, cowardly, skulking coon—the hybrid emblem of a hybrid party.—(Great laughter, tremendous cheering, and groans for some minutes.)—

The banner of the whigs is a coonskin!

In the long night of the middle ages, when armed Europe sent forth her steel-clad barons, with their stout retainers, on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the tenacious clutch of the Infidel—and alas, to redden the sands of Palestine with Christian gore—the banner that waved above the bold Crusader then, as he fought and bled

When the Bourbons desired to call to their aid the lances of imperial France, the Oriflamme was displayed, and the Gallic chivalry rallied round it to conquer or to die.— (Cheers.)

In more modern times, the tri color of the revolution and the golden eagles of the empire have been carried in triumph into every capital on the continent. There is not a single breeze that blows in which the meteor flag of England does not wave; and Blenheim, Ramilies, Seringapatam, Albuera, Salamanca and Quebec—Acre, Aboukir, Waterloo and Trafalgar, are eloquent with its glories. We rally under a banner inferior to none of these—a flag loved at home and respected abroad—the star spangled banner of our country.—(Tremendous cheering.) It is familiar to the British soldier for he saw it on the plains of Saratoga, in the lines at Yorktown, and upon the breastwork at New Orleans.—(Great cheering.) It is associated in the mind of the British sailor with the names of Hull, Porter and Decatur. It streamed from the masthead of the Constitution, when the Guerriere struck—(Cheering.) True—these are the banners of nations—but this contemptible coonskin is the emblem and the banner of a party which aspires to control the destinies of a nation.—(Groans and hisses.) And such a nation, too—a nation which doubles its population every two and twenty years—the only free nation on the face of God’s earth—a nation, the cornerstone of whose greatness was laid by him, in speaking of whom all language fails and all utterance becomes palzied. Ransack the records of all time. Invoke the aid of the genius of the past. Who is his peer? He is unapproached in the intellectual symmetry and moral grandeur of his character.

GEORGE WASHINGTON knows no peer—he has no parallel. (Loud and enthusiastic applause.) Let me call your attention to the startling fact that an indirect and most insidious attack has been lately made upon the memory of Washington. It was made from this very stand only eleven days ago, by one who stood here before the whole country as an acknowledged mouth piece of the whig party. The language of that whig orator was this: “He (Mr. Clay) has made his own character the character of the age, as Washington did in his time. Washington left the nation sober, orderly, high-principled and patriotic, but on the whole rather with negative qualities, but the man of our time (i.e. Mr. Clay) came to give the nation additional traits of a positive and active character—to make it while it yet retained all those Washingtonian virtues, still more enterprizing, bold, energetic, ardent, enthusiastic, aspiring, self-improving and self-protective.” An honest political adherent and admirer of Henry Clay should hang his head in shame to hear such language. And yet it was uttered in the presence of, and listened to with approbation by nearly 5000 whigs, and not one voice was raised against it. It has been extensively published in the whig press. Not one whig editor has passed strictures upon it. On the contrary, “The Tribune,” without reservation, pronounces the whole oration of which the above is a part as “truthful” and “masterly.” The Courier and Enquirer praises and regrets that it can not publish it. The Express predicts that “when published it will be the text-book of the campaign;” the minnows of the whig press follow in the wake of these, their leviathans. Now this whig “text-book” exalts Henry Clay at the expense and makes him the equal of GEORGE WASHINGTON—the equal of him who is degraded by a comparison with any man—whose fame should be dearer to us than our heart’s blood—who is our father—for he is the father of our country.—

Not content with this attempted parricide, this accredited organ of the whig party further says—“Mr. Clay is not only American, but America itself, the Republic personified.” This is nought but man-worship. It has no foundation in truth. It is the reckless and destructive spirit of ultra partizanship. It is a bowing of the knee to Baal. What reasonable and unprejudiced man would trust a party who, exasperated by defeat and mad with excessive lust of power, are now endeavoring to gain their end by making an idol of Clay and falling down before it. To hear their orators and their presses speak of Henry Clay, one would suppose him to be more than man. I am no calumniator of Henry Clay; I seek not to detract from his fair fame: I am willing and desirous to accord him his true position. I do not impugn his patriotism. I freely grant that he is persevering, energetic, eloquent and brave—endowed with an indescribable magic of manner, and pre-eminently fitted by nature to be what he is—a great partizan leader. In his democratic youth, before he was flattered and caressed into the ranks of the advocates of special legislation, he stood up manfully against the re-charter of the U. S. Bank, and for Madison and the war. We honor him for it. We gratefully remember his exertions in behalf of the acknowledgment of the independence of Greece and the South American Republics. At the same time we must regret that he whose youth gave such glorious promise, should, in the full maturity of his manhood, forsake the house of his fathers and go wandering after strange gods.

It is beneath the dignity of the democratic party to war with any man. The democracy war not with Henry Clay, the man—but with Henry Clay, the representative of certain principles. The whig party and Henry Clay are one; they are thoroughly identified with the policy of the land distribution, a high tariff based upon the principle of protection, and a U. S. Bank. Mark how these three kindred measures naturally aid and assist each other. They dove-tail together most admirably. Each ensures the necessity for, and the permanence of, the existence of all. Let them but be established and rivetted on the industry of the country, and an incubus will be placed on the moral welfare and substantial prosperity of this great Republic, which will be most difficult to shake off, and which, when shaken off, will have cost a bitter and protracted struggle. Elect Henry Clay President of the United States—give him a majority in both branches of Congress—let this system of policy go into effect, and a feverish, false, and fictitious state of things will be engendered, and you will have entailed upon your posterity a burthen and a curse. (A voice—“No fear of that”—loud cheers.) The question of a United States’ Bank, one main link in the triple chain, we thought was settled long ago. We deemed that Andrew Jackson had strangled that hydra-headed monster, and sowed salt upon its grave. But lo! In 1840, the whigs came into power. And one of the first things that they did was to attempt to resuscitate an institution, the very name of which stunk and stinks in the nostrils of the community. Under the Congressional dictatorship of Henry Clay they passed a bill re-chartering the United States Bank. John Tyler vetoed it. For that act, at least, he deserves and should receive credit and gratitude. (Cheers.) Now, sanguine as the whigs always are before an election, and hugging to their bosoms the delusion that they will succeed in the great Presidential canvass of 1844, they are already quietly engaged in endeavoring to galvanize that old corpse again. The whig leaders here would mask their battery and avoid an issue upon the bank. They make it an issue in Tennessee, Kentucky, and the contiguous States. We will not permit this playing fast and loose. We will make it an issue here on the sea-board, and charge it home upon them.

Turn to the position of our party previous to and after the general election of 1840. The spring elections in that year were sufficiently favorable. To all appearance the democracy were never stronger. The re-election of Martin Van Buren to the Presidential chair, which he had so worthily occupied, seemed certain. And yet not many weeks had passed before it was evident that the supremacy of our party and our principles was in danger. A union of the whigs, as it was called, for the sake of the union, brought about that mingling of parties and commingling of interests, which resulted in a combined league of the opponents of the democracy, and paved the way for the Harrisburg Convention. By that convention William Henry Harrison was nominated for the Presidency. Scott men, Clay men, and Webster men, federalists, whigs, conservatives, Anti-Masons, tarriffites, bankites—all the scattered remnants of those various factions which had been time and again defeated by the democracy, rallied, united and swarmed about that coon skin and hard cider standard of which the available candidate, General Harrison, had been chosen bearer. The log cabin mummery commenced—everything which could contribute to the delusion, and height of the artificial excitement which had been evoked into existence, was called into requisition. Their presses vomited forth Ogle’s lies. Their orators patrolled the country. Prentiss, of Mississippi, Wilson, of New Hampshire, Preston, Of South Carolina, Webster, Clay, and even Harrison himself, took the field.—Nothing was left undone. On our part, we were not idle. We saw through and despised this contemptible stage trickery—this attempt to swindle the people out of their votes, and did not believe that it could succeed. In so believing we erred, as the result proved. The Ides of November arrived; the battle was fought; we were beaten, and forced to retire from the field; and retire we did, in good order—discomfited, but not dismayed. Although our strongest defences were a prey to the spoiler—although in the violence of that political hurricane, Tennessee, the home of our venerated Jackson, had succumbed beneath the shock. Our own brave State—the Empire State—had parted from her democratic moorings—though the keystone of the arch had given way, and the “star in the east” gone down. Even then, when 19 States out of the six-and-twenty had declared against us, and our candidate had been defeated by more than 140,000 votes—though the sun of our political heaven was shrouded from our longing view—through darkness, disaster, and desolation, we hoped, and toiled, and struggled on.—(Great applause.)

To any other party a defeat like that which we then suffered, would have been destruction—annihilation. But to us it was not so—it could not be so, and why? Why is it that the democracy can be beaten but never subdued—vanquished but never conquered?—Because of that which is within us—because we strive for the true, and aim at the equal and the just. The very truths for which we contend, afford us a rallying point and a support in the hour of adversity. (Cheers.)

In the canvass of 1840, the Whigs systematically endeavored to blind the people to the true questions at issue. Letters were written to General Harrison enquiring his views upon disputed questions of moment, and the line of policy which he would adopt if elected. The answer was, “Ask my committee.” Success attained by fraud is in its very nature temporary. The Whigs triumphed by fraud. They triumphed on such issues as these—coon skins, hard cider, log cabins, William Henry Harrison, two dollars a day and roast beef, or Martin Van Buren, six and a quarter cents a day and sheep’s pluck.—They triumphed—but their triumph was short lived and bitter. Firm, united, undismayed, standing on the immutable basis of their own principles, the unterrified democracy rallied.

In the elections of the following spring and summer, we recovered our foot-hold throughout the country. The granite column of the young democracy charged upon the enemy, and they went down before it. (Tremendous applause.) Since then we have maintained our position. Why, then, should any man doubt our success in this coming conflict? Let us be organised, vigilant, determined. Let us fight the battle, inch by inch. We must resume the offensive. We must carry the war into Africa. We must be true to ourselves, our candidate, and our cause. We must do our duty, our whole duty, and nothing but our duty. We must deserve success, and leave the event to Him who made us.

If I read rightly the signs of the times, and do not greatly misunderstand the temper of the democracy, on the fourth Monday of May next, there will be a thorough organization, and earnest purpose, and deep seated enthusiasm throughout the length and breadth of the land. That organization, earnestness, and enthusiasm will be centered on the nominee of the Baltimore Convention, whoever he may be. Here upon the anniversary of the birth day of the Hero of New Orleans, intent upon the preservation of our principles, and merging our preferences for men, we pledge to the nominee of that convention an honest, earnest, and whole-souled support. (Great cheers.) Now, nine cheers for the nominee of the Baltimore Convention. (Nine deafening cheers, and “one more,” were accordingly given.)

Our local matters demand a passing notice. Our municipal election is approaching. All parties appreciate its great importance. At the late whig convention here, Horace Greeley could not let his section of the party go home without a parting admonition as to the great importance of carrying the city in April. He desires the whigs to start their ball here—let them try it. If they wait to start their ball until they start it here, they will never start it at all. Turn we now to the new-fangled and short-lived Native American party—(tremendous cheering for some minutes)—because their principles are characterized by an ingratitude, a narrowness of view, a want of true patriotism, a bigoted, intolerant and persecuting spirit which are any thing else but American. They lack vitality—they can be likened to an inverted pyramid—sure to topple over. Their whole scheme of action is comprised in an attempt to procure the essential modification or repeal of the present naturalization laws, combined with a war upon the foreign vote. (Great applause.) We will never recognise any distinction between the native and adopted citizen—we are one and the same—Americans all. (Renewed cheers.) Let the safety and stability of our government be menaced to-morrow—I care not how—or by whom—by domestic treason or foreign force—and I’ll stake my soul’s salvation that the naturalized citizens would be as true as steel. (Great applause.) Instead of being deficient in, they would brim over with patriotism. They would contribute their money and shed their blood—oh—how gladly and, how willingly!—to keep the flag of freedom flying. (Deafening applause, and cries of “they done so before, and they’d do so again!”)

In speaking of ANDREW JACKSON I began. In speaking of Andrew Jackson, I will end. He is the son of poor Irish parents, who, driven from their native country by oppression, sought a refuge here. The father died about two years after his emigration, leaving three sons (of whom the infant, Andrew, was the youngest) to the care of a widowed mother. Her circumstances were straitened, but she kept her little household together. She lived for her children, and is now reaping her exceeding great reward. There are two leading traits in the Irish character, which should not go unnoticed here. Their strong domestic affections, and unquenchable love of country. (Cheers.)

Follow the Irish exile, driven forth by the sad condition of things at home; for, disguise it as you may, the true source of the poverty and wretchedness of the Irish people, lies in misgovernment and oppressive laws—the exile seeks a home and a country elsewhere; but wherever he may be, wander where he will, he never forgets the mother who watched over his infancy, the companions of his youth, and the land of his forefathers. Deprive him of everything that renders life desirable—impair his health; strip him of his property; take friend and relative from his side; steep him to the very lips in the whelming slough of poverty; you may deprive him of all else, but you cannot wring from him his love of country.—(Great cheers.) That pure and unselfish love will burn but with a brighter ray amid the atmosphere of penury and privation, and the death-damps of despair. Weaken his body by disease—stretch him on the couch of sickness and the bed of death—his thoughts are far away—the home of his childhood flits before his glazing vision—and even as the parting spirit wings his flight, still will his heart find an echo to the cry of Erin Mavourneen, Erin go bragh.

To resume. The War of the Revolution broke out, and these poor Irish boys joined the American party. Andrew being only 14 years old. The older brother died in arms, fighting against the British at the battle of Stono [Ferry]. The second was taken prisoner, treated as a rebel, thrown into a dungeon, uncared for, and with his wounds undressed. This brought on an inflammation of the brain. An exchange of prisoners took place, and he went home to die. This broke the mother’s heart, and the grave closed on her, as it had done on her murdered boy. At fifteen, Andrew Jackson was alone in the world. In the emphatic language of the Indian chieftain, not a drop of his blood ran in the veins of any living creature. There is not time to follow, step by step, his energetic onward career. Poor, unfriended, solitary, uneducated, despite all obstacles, he worked his upward way. Oh, how mysterious are the ways of Providence! Had there been no Andrew Jackson, there would have been no New Orleans. And the cruelties and wrongs inflicted by the British Government upon that poor, exiled family, ultimately cost England the saddest field that she has seen since Bannockburn, and were expiated on the banks of the Mississippi in the blood of five thousand of her bravest.— (Tremendous cheering, and stentorian shouts of “Old Hickory forever!”)

I am not about to enlarge upon the battle of New Orleans. Its history is familiar to you all. There are very few here who have not head its story told eloquently and well by Major Davezac.—(Cheers.) He was an eye-witness and participator in the action. It would be presumptuous and unbecoming in me to trespass on ground so peculiarly his own. Pass we then on in this rapid review, exulting as we go that our democratic members in Congress have procured the passage of a law reimbursing General Jackson the fine so unjustly imposed upon him by Judge Hall. The act has been carried into effect; and thus the country has restored to the hero’s laurelled brow the only leaf that was ever plucked from it.—(Loud applause.) There are many here who well remember how Andrew Jackson has been assailed. Calumny and vituperation exhausted their malice on him—combinations of foiled political opponents—adventurers disappointed in their ambitious projects—the factions prejudiced and designing—were banded together against our leader, and threatened him with annihilation. They filled the air with clamor, but they howled, and howled in vain around that brave old hickory tree that struck its roots so firmly and so well into the generous soil of democracy. (Cheers.) Then was the name of Andrew Jackson our cloud by day, and our pillar of fire by night. He was our shield and sword, our Fabius and Marcellus both.

Mutually sustaining and sustained, we grappled with the head and front of our mushroom moneyed aristocracy, the United States Bank, and strangled the hydra, not in its youth, not in its old age, but in the lusty prime of its golden manhood. (Cheers.) Its defunct carcase has never received decent burial from the hands of its friends and mourners, the whigs; but has been left to rot, to putrify, and to contaminate the moral atmosphere of the land— (Groans and hisses.)

Aye, Andrew Jackson was true to our principles, true to us, and we were true to him. We gave him a hearty and triumphant support, the same support that we will always give to the man who, elevated by our suffrages, conscientiously and determinedly carries out our views.

No man ever knew and no man ever will know the Democracy falter or shrink in sustaining our faithful public servants. To our public men we say—adhere to our principles and we will adhere to you. Desert our principles and we will spurn you from us. No man, however exalted by genius and elevated by station, can do without the people half so well as the people can do without him. Demagogues are apt to forget this truth. They conceive themselves with their attendant train of satellites and wire-pullers, to be the people. As long as they merely think so, without acting on the supposition, it is all well enough. The moment they act under this false belief, they are undeceived only to awake in utter and deserved ruin. When men prove recreant to the trust reposed in them, as, among others, Nathaniel P. Tallmadge, present United States Senator, has done, they must expect to have their ears saluted with music as is made up of the curses of hate and the hisses of scorn.—

Moreover, they are sure to receive the wages of political sin, which is political death. (Hisses “for all renegades.”) When our public men are true to us—true to those broad principles of equal rights and equal laws which constitute our democratic creed—as Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Andrew Jackson have been—and as Richard M. Johnson, Martin Van Buren, John C. Calhoun and Silas Wright are—whenever and wherever they are assailed, we will rally around them to a man, and unitedly and triumphantly sustain them to the last.

Hereafter, when men speak of New Orleans and Andrew Jackson—when they contemplate his consistent, dignified, and patriotic course as President of the United States—when they call to mind the obloquy and contumely that poured upon him—as they remember the fact that in the midst of all this conflict he was deprived of the wife of his bosom, she whom he had cherished with an exceeding tenderness, on whom he had lavished the wealth of his affections, whom he had loved as the strong man only can love—and as those memories rise before them, they will feel as Halleck did when he wrote his beautiful lines to the memory of Burns—lines that will live forever—

Picture him now in the Hermitage. The sun is setting. Its declining rays fall through the casement on the bowed form of one, who had he been a Roman, would have been the noblest Roman of them all. Silent and alone he falls into a reverie. His eyes involuntarily close. And the days of his youth come back upon him. His countenance saddens as he feels that the voice of her, who is in heaven, falls no longer on his ear. Her form flits not by him on its thousand customed errands of domestic love. He is alone—but he is not lonely—he reflects on his latter day. He rejoices in the contemplation of the doctrines of that holy christian faith, which bids us live forever. He is conscious that his sun is going down in peace. The air around him is laden with the blessings of a grateful people, and every breeze is vocal with his praises.

The rich inheritance of his virtues and his glory is ours. That inheritance we will cherish and defend forever. Long may he live. But when his spirit shall ascend to the God that gave it, the whole land will rise up and call him blessed. The manhood and the womanhood of this Republic will unite in the heartfelt and trusting prayer that when he appears at the bar of Omnipotence, he will receive the salutation of “Well done good and faithful servant.” (Loud and continued cheering.)

One word more, and I have done. I spoke but a short time since of the Baltimore Convention, and I spoke of its nominee; and now let me speak for the assembled democracy of this fair city, and say that whoever this nominee may be, we will give him our united—our undivided—our all-conquering support. (Loud cheers.) Whether he be Lewis Cass of Michigan—(feeble cheers)—James Buchanan, of Pennsylvania (Silence)—the old Kentucky war horse, Richard M. Johnson (Loud cheers)—John C. Calhoun, of South Carolina—(Louder cheers)—or New York’s favorite son, Martin Van Buren. (Tremendous and deafening cheers.) The principles which Andrew Jackson advocated from his boyhood to his more than three score years and ten, are once more at stake. Let us then, from this moment henceforth

Vow to go into this coming presidential canvass with the stern resolve to do our duty—in the largest and widest sense of the term, and let the consequences take care of themselves. If we do this—if we fight this battle as it should be fought, with honesty, abiding energy, and an enthusiasm tempered by a cool, calm, courage, we will triumph. Do this, and even if we fail, we will have no cause for self-accusation. And whatever the result, we have one consolation vouchsafed to us and denied to our opponents; and that is, that the sun of Truth can never set—the mists of prejudice may arise and obscure its rays—the clouds of error intervene and hide its beams—the tempests of faction and party hate shut out its genial and life bestowing heat; but the mists will arise—the clouds will pass away—the tempest roll on and be forgotten, while the sun, the brighter and the dearer for his temporary obscurity, will shine on as he shone of yore—to brighten, to gladden, to vivify and to bless. It is so in the physical world—so in the moral—so in the political.— Truth can never die. And those political principles which we uphold—in which we live, and for which we are willing to die, will widen and deepen, extend and exist forever. (Loud and prolonged applause.)

MR. MELVILLE’S address was heard with the greatest attention, and was remarkably well received.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

GOV. BOUCK IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK

Correspondence of the Argus New-York, June 15th, 1844

… On Wednesday night, the
proscribed watchmen and other democrats in the 11th ward, the
headquarters of the New York Democracy, returning as it does 1200
democraticmajority, invited the
Governor to a grand supper.Some three
hundred sat down to a table most sumptuously spread by Mr. Waring, the
proprietor.Among the invited guests
were his Excellency, the Hon. B. F. Butler, Ald. Purdy, L. B. Shepherd, Wm.
McMurray, Gansevoort Melville, and others—by all of whom soul-stirring speeches
and sentiments were given….

In honor of the Governor’s arrival, the 11th
ward cannon was brought out, and alternated its thunder with the softer strains
of a most excellent band of music.

MR. MELVILLE, in the course of
his remarks, said “The people had tried the ‘old white horse.’They had found him a good courser, they were
going to put him on the track again, and when he once had his feet upon it, he
was sure to go right through.”This was
received with most hearty and repeated cheers. (GenealogyBank.com)

The New York Tribune, June 20, 1844, was quick to print this scornful reply (to an earlier printing of the report):

The Albany Argus thinks that in the late Eleventh Ward supper given to
the ‘Old White Horse’ by the ’rank and file’ of this city, Mr.
Master-in-Chancery McMurray officiated as ‘rank’ and Mr. Examiner-in-Chancery
Melville as ‘file.’Very likely.They are two ‘nice men for a small party.’ (Old Fulton NY Post Cards)